Sand Spider

While home, a fellow Navy officer asked if I had seen sand spiders. I replied that I had not but that I had seen some pictures of some of the more larger specimens. And they can grow to be pretty large.

While at Ali al Salem, I was waiting to assist in the offload of some of our checked baggage. It was around 0130 local time. An Air Force lieutenant colonel I was speaking with said, “Hey, what’s that?” pointing the ground. We saw something that at first looked like a mid-sized brown scorpion scurrying along the ground at a pretty good clip. As I got closer, I saw it was a legendary sand spider. It seemed fearless and changed course to come in my direction. “Are they poisonous?” I asked while weaving to avoid its charge. “No, but their bite is quite painful, so I’m told.” I got out my camera and attempted to take a picture documenting this encounter. As I got closer to it, it would change course to come at me. I would back away and then again attempt to get closer. Eventually, I snapped a somewhat X-Files-like picture. It was much bigger than it appears. Really.

Back to the Future

The time passed too quickly. Shortly after getting home for leave I thought, fifteen days surely is a long time. But here I sit in Atlanta on 24 May already, waiting to catch the chartered flight to Kuwait, via Leipzig, Germany, my leave all but over. I awoke at 0315 this morning in order to catch a 0600 commercial flight from San Francisco International to Dallas. At SFO, I bid my attractive wife farewell once again with the mutual understanding that more than half of my tour already was over: only four and a half months to go. It was still hard to say goodbye.

Following the instructions given to me when I arrived in Dallas, I sought out an adjacent ticket counter at the USO where I would officially report back. The ticket counter was a sea of military members wearing Army Combat and Desert Camouflage Uniforms (ACUs and DCUs), the sight of which actually was shocking. During my short leave, my eyes quickly readjusted to civilian clothes.

The same Texan hospitality I encountered on the inbound flight once again was waiting for us. The USO provided snacks, water, batteries, and other sundry items after we made our way from the check in area to the gate. We boarded the chartered jet for a short flight to Atlanta where we picked up the rest of our group -- some 355 people all together.

We arrived in Atlanta a few hours later where we deplaned briefly and met up with more people in uniform. We re-boarded, this time taking up every seat in the chartered MD-11, and took off for Kuwait via a brief stop in Leipzig, Germany.

On the plane, I sat next to a Army staff sergeant who I learned had served previously in Afghanistan and was now in Tikrit, Iraq. Like me, he was returning from leave. When he learned I was stationed in the International Zone, he asked about the period in April where we received almost daily rocket attacks from Shiite insurgents in Sadr City. “I’ve heard several swish by,” I said. “I’m told if you can hear them, they aren’t necessarily headed your way.” “Not true,” he replied, “and I have the Purple Heart to prove it.” He explained he had been in a guard tower in Afghanistan one night when he heard the familiar swoosh of an incoming rocket. He initially thought he was safe because he could hear the rocket. Nevertheless, it slammed into the guard tower injuring him. “Were you hit by shrapnel?” I asked. He said he didn’t think so; it was likely a piece of the tower which broke loose during the explosion. So, swoosh doesn’t necessarily mean safe. Noted.

We landed in Kuwait City around 1900 local on 25 May, some ten hours in the future as far California and my family was concerned. We stepped out of the plane into a 104F Hair Dryer. Thankfully, we walked immediately into waiting air conditioned buses. Unlike our outbound leg, a Kuwaiti Police escort already was waiting for the trip to Camp Ali al Salem. There, the same Gateway crew as before processed us back in from leave and began separating us into to different groups, depending on our final destinations whether they be in Iraq, Afghanistan or the Horn of Africa.

I had hoped the flight to Baghdad would be leave later in the day, affording us some respite but at a briefing at 2200 we were told to return at 0200. At 0200 we were told that we were to be manifested on a flight leaving later that day. At 0245 we were put again in “lockdown” which you will recall is military speak for “don’t go anywhere.” At 0400 we were told to “stand by” and at 0430 we began boarding buses to go meet our flight. Out on the flight-line we boarded a huge, passenger configured C-17 at 0500 and took off for Baghdad around 0600. Although packed in again like sardines, the advantage of the C-17 is that it’s much quicker than a C-130; we arrived in Baghdad only an hour later. All told getting back to Iraq was much more efficient than leaving, the irony of which was not lost on those of us returning from leave.

Home

Dear readers: I got home last week and have another week to go. I'm so happy to be home and be spending time with my family. I'll start posting again when I return to Baghdad.

Southern Comfort - Part Two

I wrote earlier of the wonderful and unexpected hospitality we received in Columbia, South Carolina the night before we flew to Kuwait six months ago. After a brief refueling stop in Leipzig, Germany, our chartered flight landed in Atlanta, Roughly half our group deplaned here to catch commercial flights to points on the eastern half of the US. The rest of us flew on to Dallas, Texas.

We were greeted in Dallas by an Army master sergeant accompanied by a major. I turned over the Dallas manifest given to me by the team at Gateway and signed several papers recording our flight’s arrival. In the company of the major, myself and an army colonel flying with us, walked off the plane ahead of the rest of the group. We stepped into the terminal and received several thank yous and glances of admiration from people walking around. The major led us down a flight of steps to an unused customs area where he officially stamped our leave slips, recording our entry back to the US. The major told me I could exit as the colonel had checked baggage to claim. I thanked him, especially now that my official duties as flight commander were through.

I made my way to the exit not sure of where I would end up. Two closed doors opened automatically and I found myself in a long hallway. As I turned the corridor I found myself looking at close to fifty people including school children with balloons, flags and confetti. All of sudden people were shaking my hand, giving me a small gift bag, a bottle of cold water and smiles all around. Off to my left, someone played a patriotic song from a stereo loudspeaker. I looked into the eyes of the kids and shook as many hands as I could thanking every one of them. I was overcome, especially as I was caught so off guard. I apologized in fact because the rest of my group was behind me some minutes off. They all said that was okay; I was just as import walking through alone. Truly amazing.

I found myself on the street and in the bright Dallas sunshine. I turned and walked to the next set of double doors and entered the United Terminal where I would be catching my next flight to San Francisco via Denver. I passed through security again and made a call to my attractive wife to update her on my arrival time home. As I finished, an elderly man came up to me to shake my hand and to thank me for my service. I explained I was mid-way through my tour and that I was looking forward to seeing my family. After our chat, I made my way to a bathroom. As I was shaving, a tall young man came in and slapped a $20 bill on the basin and said, “Thank you for my freedom.” I was aghast, picked up the bill and said, “Sir, that’s not necessary...” but he said, “yes, it is. Thank you,” and was gone. I finished shaving, once again surprised by the genuine nature of appreciation. As I finished, a young army specialist (E-4) walked in and began repacking his back across from me. I took the $20 and said to him, “a complete stranger just gave me this $20 thanking for me my service. I’m an O-5 and you’re a E-4; you take it.” The specialist wore the same expression I had just moments earlier and said, “Thank you, sir.” I smiled and left. Pay it forward.

Thank you, good people of Dallas. This Dirt Sailor won’t forget your gestures of hospitality.

Checkpoint

We drove for about ten or fifteen minutes when we pulled over into what appeared to be a check point. Sitting in the front of the lead bus I could see Kuwaiti police vehicles parked next to a few ramshackle buildings. Several Kuwaitis, police I assumed, walked out of the building and made their way to the lead HUMVEE escort. This, I was told, would be our police escort to KCIA, still some twenty or so minutes away. We waited. And waited.

One of the soldiers on our bus had a radio which I periodically asked him to use to find out what was going on. Every time he radioed the HUMVEE they replied that the Kuwaitis were told they would be escorting two convoys, not one. All I could think of was the other group of soldiers from Afghanistan we had spent the entire day behind in customs. I knew for a fact that we had left before them, presumably because our flight left before theirs.

After an hour went by, new civilian vehicles arrived. Uniformed personnel got out and joined the growing conference of Kuwaitis and US military at the head of our convoy. I asked my Marine Corps master sergeant, who was my assistant flight commander, to accompany me out of the bus to see what was going on. As we approached the outdoor conference, I saw that one of the recent arrivals was a Kuwaiti police colonel. The other Kuwaitis were paying him much deference. The US military personnel involved in the conference were senior enlisted. One of them saw our approach and asked what he could do for us. He looked stressed and our arrival likely was adding to the stress. Nevertheless, I owed it to the 348 personnel in the buses behind me to find out what was going on.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked. “Yeah,” I replied, “we’re less than two hours from our scheduled departure. Why are we still stuck here?” “Sir,” he said moving slightly between me and the ensuing discussion not far away, “we’re just about to get moving, don’t worry.”
Right.

I knew the flight was chartered, and we were the only passengers, so it’s not like the plane was going anywhere without us. We walked back to the bus. Not long after, another convoy of four buses plus a baggage truck arrived and positioned themselves in front of us. This was the second convoy the Kuwaitis were waiting for. Slowly, the Kuwaitis and the US military personnel previously engaged in the discussions got back in their vehicles and we started moving.

After some twenty to thirty minutes, we arrived at KCIA and vectored off to a closed section of the airport. We went through some more check points and were told we would be driven directly to the flight line. The convoy that was ahead of us drove off to a parking lot. As we passed by, we saw them getting off their buses to smoke.

We drove on for a minute or two and found ourselves on the flight line. A large chartered plane was waiting for us. Our volunteer baggage handlers, where were on the first bus with me, got off and started to load our bags on the plane. I got off the bus and presented our official manifest to the plane’s crew. Some more signatures were made and our group got onto the plane. Every seat was taken.

Bus Ride to KCIA

I left the loading dock, with the last of my group and found ourselves in Yet Another Line. This one led through a causeway to another building where, we were told by those ahead of us, we would go through another X ray machine. Once again, we emptied our pockets, walked through the metal detectors, had our carry one bags X-rayed and were admonished once again that we could take such things as hand grenades, war trophies, or switch blades home. Right.

We exited into a court yard where we were instructed to wait in a tent, depending on our intermediate destinations (Atlanta or Dallas). I went to the Dallas tent and found half my group waiting seated on chairs and watching a movie. A stocked refrigerator held water, sodas and sports drinks, along with snacks on the wall. I grabbed a Coke and some potato chips. Shortly, we were instructed to walk to another building where we would pick up our commercial airline tickets and itineraries. We did so, and then gathered once more as an entire group under a wooden roofed structure. We received a blessing from an Air Force Chaplain who gave a gift to one of our soldiers. He gave it to the youngest soldier with a child (the solider was nineteen).

Our push time for the busses was set back one hour to accommodate our Dantean travel through Customs. I was informed by the movement coordinator that we would be okay. Under Gateway personnel supervision we slowly filed onto nine large buses and, under armed escort, proceeded out into the dark Kuwaiti desert.

Leaving Gateway

The next morning we re-assembled and went into “lockdown” which is a military term for “don’t go anywhere,” while we waited to clear customs. We were herded into a large, air conditioned tent, while we waited to be called to a building next door to go through the customs. We waited and waited. Finally, some two hours later, a Navy customs petty officer introduced himself to me and said we would be starting. Apparently, another unit redeploying home from Afghanistan had been two hours late starting their customs and now my group was behind schedule. We were scheduled to leave together on a bus later that afternoon in order to make trip to Kuwait City International Airport (KCIA).

As the flight commander, I went with the first group of people called to go through customs. We were ushered to the next building, told to remove our covers (hats) and empty our pockets into them. We filed by an X-ray machine, were wanded and then proceeded to a series of desks where t-shirted Navy customs enlisted petty officers went through our bags. It was hot and dark in the cavernous building.

“Why is it so dark in here?” I asked the Hispanic guy going through my back pack. “Oh, the power went out about two hours ago. We also had a small fire but it was put out.” That’s great. I took my now unpacked belongings and dumped them into a plastic bin. Moving everything over to a series of wooden tables, I repacked and went outside.

Two trucks waited on a loading dock where volunteer baggage handlers from my group and the unit from Afghanistan were loaded checked baggage. I placed my bags to the side and re-entered the customs building to see if I could get a better sense of what was going on.

“Are you the flight commander?” a Navy customs official asked me while I was still outside. “That’s me,” I answered. “We’re going to have to hurry your people up if you guys want to make your flight tonight.” “Well we’d love to,” I answered, “but we got stuck behind this other unit redeploying from Afghanistan.” “There’s no way around that,” he answered, “just tell your people to re-pack their belongings faster.” Well, thanks for that advice, I thought. I passed the word to our baggage handlers and some of them started circulating in the customs building cajoling their fellow soldiers to repack faster.

While inside, I was approached by a young army sergeant who asked if I could sign form authorizing him to take a piece of shrapnel home. Technically, this is classified as a war trophy but there are regulations allowing soldiers to take them home under certain circumstances. Gingerly, he unwrapped a towel to reveal an ugly six inch piece of twisted steel. “How did you come across this?” I asked. “My trucked was IED’d and this piece of shrapnel came flying into my truck where it bounded around. Luckily, no one was hurt.” I held the jagged pieces of steel, which was very sharp, and wondered how anyone couldn’t be hurt by having it bounce around in a vehicle. “You certainly deserve this,” I said and signed his form.

As the last of our group cleared customs, the power returned.

Gateway

Ah, Kuwait: land of sand, diesel generators spaced twenty meters apart, port-o-lets, and tents. I found myself the next day at Camp Ali al Salem in Kuwait. Like Camp Virginia, this is a sprawling, multi-purpose base. Gateway is the area of the camp dedicated to processing people coming in and going out of theater, either on leave or redeployment back home. I got here via a crowded flight on a venerable Air Force C-130 Hercules. We were packed in like sardines. Coincidentally, I spent the flight sitting next to my friend Vinny, a civilian friend of mine who works law enforcement and who was in Iraq for a 120 day temporary assignment. Vinny was redeploying home. We had ran into the each other at the BIAP passenger terminal. As we like to say, it’s a medium-sized country.

Upon landing at Ali al Salem, we boarded a bus for a fifteen minute ride to Gateway. Vinny, along with other civilians, got off before us to be processed separately. I bid him good bye and good luck. The rest of us got off just down the road and filed into a processing tent. We gave them our signed leave forms, which they stamped and made copies of. We also requested commercial airline tickets to our respective final leave destinations. The entire group, some 350 of us, would fly on a chartered plane to Atlanta. Roughly half the group would leave at Atlanta to catch commercial flights to their final destinations on the eastern portion of the country. The rest of us would fly onto Dallas where we would catch commercial flights to points west. Since I was headed back to the Bay Area, I would be flying to Dallas.

After processing, we were assigned tents to sleep in as we wouldn’t be leaving until the following day. Before leaving the tent, I was appointed Flight Commander, which is a military term for “cat herder” for the 350 of us flying back to the U.S. This meant I was would be responsible for the “military discipline and good order” for the group as we made our way from Gateway to Kuwait International Airport (KCIA) and then onto to Atlanta and Dallas.

I walked around the camp and found it a lot like Camp Virginia, where I spent nearly week processing into theater six months ago. There were the ubiquitous noisy power generators, a sizable Dining Facility (DFAC), a McDonalds, Barber Shop, Base Exchange, plus other sundry shops, and two Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR) tents which featured TVs, videos games, and Internet terminals. I went to bed early figuring I would need the rest for the journey to come.

Going on Leave

Last month, I traveled to Qatar for a conference and I wrote of the Hell That is Travel in theater. That trip turned out to be quite smooth, actually. On both legs, our group flew in style aboard Air Force C-17s instead of the more quotidian, prop-driven, C-130 Hercules. The key to our success was traveling on official business or, in military parlance, Temporary Duty (TDY). Under the aegis of TDY orders, we were able to space block ourselves (military for making a reservation) on an outbound flight.

Tonight, I left the International Zone on the first step of my mid-tour leave. While I am traveling on orders, they are leave orders, not technically TDY. In fact, leave orders are lower priority than cargo. After all, it’s not like there is some kind of mission essential reason why you need to get out of country to go on leave.

Step one was a routine ride on the Rhino Runner from the IZ to Victory Base. I said good bye to my two teammates, both of whom will redeploy home while I am away. Upon arrival at Victory Base, I was dropped off at the Al Faw palace, headquarters of MNF-I. I needed to get to Baghdad Int’l Airport (BIAP). I walked about a quarter mile, wearing body armor and toting my backpack, to a bus stop to figure out a way to BIAP. To my dismay, there wasn’t a way to get there from where I was. However, I could take a bus to Camp Stryker, specifically the Stryker Stables where I spent time six months ago just after my arrival in country. I knew there was an hourly bus that left for BIAP from the stables. A quick look at the schedule showed I had nearly fifty minutes to wait. I spied a local DFAC and figured I would follow the advice given to me by an Air Force pilot I knew (“Eat when you can.”). I dropped off my gear at the Mayor Cell, an office that administers housing on Victory Base, and ate a quick, Mexican-styled dinner in honor of Cinco de Mayo.

As I approached the Mayor Cell building I heard an incoming alarm warning of indirect fire. Now an expert at this particular drill, I opted to sprint into the office which appeared pretty sturdy. As I walked in, the alarm abruptly stopped. Previous experience suggested this was a false alarm. I walked into the office to find all the army personnel prone on the floor. I said, “I think they’re trying to mess with you,” trying to be funny which got no reaction. Shortly, an army lieutenant appeared and verified it was a false alarm. I grabbed my gear and walked back to the bus stop.

Another long and bumpy bus ride ensued. Darkness fell and the environs of Victory Base turned into harshly outlined scraggly trees and desert brush flanking the roadside lit by the bus’ headlights. Having spent so little time here, I kept forgetting how big Victory is. At one point, the road detoured onto a dirt path, complete with impressive potholes. The driver, an Indian national, expertly wove the teetering Toyota minibus around the potholes and uneven earth. Squished into my too small seat, wearing body armor, and cradling my too big back pack, I felt quite the third world traveler. How would noted travel writer Paul Theroux describe it I wondered? Better.

As luck would have it, we arrived at the Stryker stables ten minutes before eight in the evening. I walked from the Toyota Jeep-nee to a more sizable bus waiting to take other soldiers to BIAP. Another bus ride, this time solely confined to paved road, brought us to BIAP.

I checked in the R&R desk and was told to come back at 2200 for a formation. This is the army’s way of addressing a large crowd. I found the Navy liaison trailer, air conditioned, and watched the first episode of the sitcom, “Chuck” that my friend Chris from back home sent along with the rest of the show’s season. At 2200 I formed up, along with a plethora of army bubbas. A sergeant came out and told us to pass our ID cards to the right. Providing we were on the list of people authorized to go on leave, we would be manifested onto a flight that would leave “sometime in the future.” It would take one hour to manifest us on whatever flight we would take. Come back in one hour.

2315 hours. We huddle around the same sergeant. Over the din of air force cargo planes taxiing on nearby runways, they begin announcing who is going on what flight by using the last four digits of our social security numbers. Everyone is used to hearing their last name but try listening for a unique four digit string among a sea of numbers. It’s harder than you think.

I was assigned a flight for the next day. Show time was 0915 and estimated take off 1215. Given the vagaries of military air lift, I opted to stay overnight at the terminal instead of heading back to the Stryker stables. I went back to the relative comfort of the Navy trailer. I swept the dust out of a corner of the office/trailer and spread out a long kevlar blanket I found tucked under a desk. It made a fine ersatz mattress. The rhythmic thumping of taxiing helicopters not far away vibrated the trailer -- and me -- to sleep.

Halfway

25 April was my half way mark of my one year tour here. In some ways, the time has flown; in other ways it’s crawled. April, in particular, has crawled which is a shame since spring is normally one of my favorite times of the year. Already the temperatures have soared well past the century mark for more than a week and half. The exceptional cold of Baghdad’s winter now is but a halcyon memory. The highest temperature I’ve experienced was 109F two weeks ago. This week, we’ve had a slight respite with temperatures in the mid-90s which actually feels cool, if you can believe that.

Over time, we have become used to the increased indirect fire attacks (IDF) which began in earnest last Easter. The complex machinations of Iraqi domestic politics, on which the IDF attacks partially are triggered, grinds slowly forward. From where I sit, it’s hard to grasp the complete story other than the Government of Iraq now is taking greater and greater responsibility for what happens here. In some ways, that’s important progress.

In the meantime, we here in the International Zone have come to adjust to the IDF attacks. What initially was scary is now routine, a peculiar truism of war that I had read about but now know firsthand. We know what to do when IDF occurs and we get on with our jobs. Maybe simple experience ultimately nullifies the negative effect of the IDF; the rounds are small and the damage is minimal. Slowly, the threat of the attacks have lost their effectiveness, at least for me. That is not to say we have become complacent; far from it, we respond in a way that only real life experience can hone. Anyone can tell you how to ride a bike but you don’t know how until you actually do it.

The IDF and my upcoming 15-day leave put an interesting coda on my experiences thus far. I do know that I am ready to get the Hell Out Of Here, at least for a while. But because I know that I’ll have to come back, I haven’t breathed that mental sigh of relief that I have seen on the faces of other people who are about to redeploy for good. I hope I will be able to relax at home. When I see my attractive wife and handsome two-year old son, I think I will...